The Hunger Games: Year 73
by CuriousDarwin
Summary: Rewrite of "The 73rd Hunger Games  by MagicBlast "  Finniack Odair revealed the vast bulk of the Capitol's secrets, but what other secrets did President Snow keep from Panem? Pre-HG, the 73rd Hunger Games is only the tip of the iceberg.  Rated T for gore


The Hunger Games: Year 73 (REWRITE)

Hello! This is MagicBlast under a new account (for some reason I can't log into my account, so I made a new one) and I've decided to rewrite my story "The 73rd Hunger Games." It will pretty much have the same storyline, same characters, same pace, but I've tweeked some things. I've expanded the chapters, changed the title, changed the main character's name (he was previously Seth Grady, he's now called Varos Gellart) and edited some things out for future explanations. Seth/Varos' personality is exactly the same as it was before though!

I'm sorry it took me two years to get back onto FFNet, let alone finish this story. Thanks a bunch for being so patient!

The Hunger Games: Year 73

I

Ever The Odds

I hated Mondays. Almost as much as I hated Reaping Day. Incidentally, the Reaping of the 74th Hunger Games was due to be on a Monday. If that wasn't an omen, I'm not sure what is.

We didn't have much in District 12, really. Half of the population is dropping from starvation, while the other half are working themselves to the bone to barely scrape by. However, there are other means of getting the food we so desperately need: terrasae, in other words, sign yourself up as a lamb for the slaughter. In order to stay alive, you had to place your name multiple times to be selected for the Hunger Games, which is a death wish in itself.

The cruel spin on this is that only children can be selected for the Hunger Games. So while mothers and fathers are doing what they can to feed themselves and their families, every year they have come to face with the reality that this year their child might be chosen as tribute. Considering the odds that District 12 has had over the years, they know in their hearts the chances of their child coming back are slim to none.

My name has been in that ominous glass bowl thirteen times. My brother's had only been in five times when he was selected for the Hunger Games. Our parents did whatever they could to get by; my father butches whatever animal is presented to him and my mother makes decorations, ointments, unguents and knick-knacks from the remains.

My brother was a promising child, with the potential of becoming a doctor. Our health care was atrocious in District 12, we relied on healers and and even their capabilities were limited due to the famine, and a qualified medical professional is like gold dust. So when the name Elipson Gellart was drawn, my parents' world fell apart

It's ludicrous really. Elipson was exceptionally smart and talented, the success of the family, and because we were better off back then he had only applied for terrasae once. Yet his name gets drawn out. My parents have never really recovered since losing their budding star. Elipson had the brains, the good looks, the knack for sports... so what do I have?

Oh yeah, I'm adaptable. But that's hardly a score-worthy talent. Elipson got an 8 for his knowledge of poisons/remedies found in the forest. My being able to use what's in reach within reason is nothing in comparison.

It's mid-day. Judgement day awaits. A knot in my stomach starts to form in anticipation. If it's not bad enough that we're being sent to our death, we have to deal with...

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

"… and may the odds be _ever_ in your favour!"

It takes all the moral fibre in my body to hold back a groan of contempt. Effie Trinket. The pink-haired diva who "graces us with her presence" every Reaping. Anyone with functioning eyes can tell that she's wearing a wig, though you need a lot more than good eyesight to guess what might be the reason exactly _why _she insists on wearing the magenta-hued monstrosity on her head. Perhaps she has something to hide? A terrible haircut, perhaps? A head covered in venomous snakes?

I smile to myself a little at my comparison between her and Medusa. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if she secretly were a demon from mythological legends because that would explain why we're being rounded up like helpless sheep about to be sacrificed to the Minotaur. Oh, no, wait. It has nothing to do with the Minotaur. It's the annual Hunger Games.

The Hunger Games is a televised 'game show' where contestants - they are often referred to as "tributes" to disguise their true identities; "sacrifices" - selected from all twelve Districts are thrown together in an arena, expected to fight to the death.

It was the Capitol's way of saying a big "fuck you" to the districts after their rebellion. As a result of this mutiny, District 13 had been obliterated and every year two individuals - one boy, one girl - from the remaining twelve districts between the ages of twelve to eighteen are drawn from two glass balls to "participate" in Hunger Games.

So now here we are again. Just like last year… and the year before that.

The crowd are suddenly silent when a female name has been drawn. Not that they could be more silent than they were before. Unlike everyone else here, I'm not too worried. I have no siblings who could be in danger of being selected for the Games. The only one who is in the line of any potential threat is me, but so far I have managed to go through five years of Reaping without having my name be the one taken out.

I suppose the odds were _ever_ in my favour. But then again, considering the one who always makes this statement is Effie Trinket, I wouldn't hold my breath any time soon.

"Andromeda Heron."

A very thick and suffocating tension follows. We all know Andromeda Heron. How could we not? She was among the small percentage of the population who did not look like Seam locals. The vast bulk of the people of the coal district were olive-skinned, grey eyed and had dark hair. Andromeda Heron was a rarity with her almost albino-like appearance. She was incredibly fair skinned, to the point where you think any exposure to the sun would burst her into flames, with white-blond hair and unusually green eyes. Along with her appearance, she's always been singled out by everyone at school because of her unusual name. No sane parent would call their daughter 'Andy'. The only other potential female Andy is Andrea Periwinkle, and even then Andy got picked on for being named after a separate galaxy rather than some other _Earth-related_ name.

A few of us have particularly unusual names due to family throw-backs. Previous use of old age names have been considered nostalgic, even torturous as a reminder of what we lost back then. However, some families choose old fashioned names from a better time, as perhaps it gives them hope that maybe we'll return to that time some time soon. I'm not exactly sure how naming yourself something from back then will make any difference though, but it's their choice.

No one makes a sound as Andy steadily makes her way to the stage. I have never known Andy to talk much. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if the girl wasn't capable of talking at all considering all the communication she exchanges with other students involves lazy nods of her head.

Not that I've been watching or anything. You just notice these things. I'm among the more sociable students of my school. It's all a bravado really. Having lost my brother to the Games five years ago, I use humour as a way to get people to stop looking at me like I'm made of glass. Yes, I do miss Elipson, but never-ending sympathy isn't exactly going to bring him back. No one in District 12 is particularly happy anyway, what with a poverty and famine, however Andy seems especially devoid of emotions. Like she's always somewhere else, somewhere she'd rather be than here.

I'm not exactly sure what Andy's family did for a living, as Andy looks reasonably well fed considering our climate. The years have been good to her and she's been nourished enough to develop feminine features. A few of the girls at school have gossiped among themselves that Andy must be an alien because she's the only one who has very obvious hips and strangely long legs.

Not that I've been listening, you just overhear conversations a lot in such an overcrowded place.

Despite the brave façade that Andy is trying so hard to uphold, I can still detect the trait of fear in her eyes. No one else has noticed, as far as I can tell anyway, but then again, I suppose they're all currently preoccupied with dreading who the boy tribute may be.

Right on cue, Effie intones: "It's time to choose our boy tribu–"

"Andy!" a small voice shrieks from within the crowd. I don't care who it is, but I greatly like this person for being brave enough or stupid enough to interrupt Effie Trinket in the middle of a speech. "Andy!" a little boy, presumably about eight years old at best, whizzes out from the crowd and successfully latches himself onto Andy in a record-breaking time of ten seconds.

"Al," I can hear her murmur to him as she squeezes the boy for plausibly the last time. I didn't know Andy had a little brother. But then again, I suppose I would have known this if I had even talked to her once in a while. I try to keep my eyes on the glass ball where Effie is standing with impatience. It's known to everyone in District 12 that Effie hates us. She's only here because the Capitol haven't upped her to a far more wealthy district. Despite my best attempts to tune Andy's family crisis out, I can hear her mutter something incoherent to the boy which finally settles him down.

I hear Effie cough in discomfort but no one gives a damn. If we were to pick someone to sympathize with between Effie Trinket with her Capitol-bred lifestyle and a seventeen year old girl who is being sacrificed to entertain the bastards, we'd all pick Andy in a heartbeat. Sucks to be you, Effie.

To surprise myself, I'd like to know what she said. But I don't maul over it too much as I divert my attention to huddled group of pre-teen boys shivering together, like a pack of sheep trying to keep as far away as they can from the big bad wolf. Only the wolf is a bowl wherein which Effie Trinket has currently dipped her Capitol-manicured hand. I feel sorry for the young boys, I genuinely do. And I'm suddenly overwhelmed with a feeling that hopes it's not one of them who has to face twenty-two better trained adolescents, as well as Andy.

However, I don't make the rules. I don't choose the names. If I had any say or authority in the Hunger Games I would select twenty-four children from the Capitol and pit them against each other. See how they feel about watching their children fight to the death year after year, knowing that no matter how much you may hope for their survival, only one of them is going to leave that arena alive.

"Varos Gellart."

I hear a scream being muffled somewhere in the crowd and I know it's my mother having to control herself. I swear, whatever God is out there favours the Capitol. I merely think of putting them through what we've had to deal with for seventy-three years and suddenly I'm the unlucky bastard who gets picked for the Hunger Games. Bad enough that the Gellarts have loved their eldest, now as it turns out they won't have any children at all by the end of this.

Oh well, at least it wasn't one of those boys. The oldest they could have been was thirteen and something tells me a half-starved poverty-stricken twelve-year-old wouldn't fare in the Games nearly as well as a reasonably well-fed seventeen year old. The boys obviously recognise my name as in unison, they all look at with me with their wide, fearful eyes. And it takes me a second to realise that they're not afraid _of _me, they're afraid _for_ me.

And I have no either which is worse.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

And although I'm grinning on the outside as I start on the world's slowest journey to the podium, I can feel my legs numb and congeal into jelly. Even though I'm laughing and murmuring "Ah just luck is all, nothing to it" to whoever passes a glance my way, I can hear my breath becoming erratic and my windpipe starting to slowly close. I can hear and feel my heart beat all over my body, the capillaries in my fingertips are screaming and my pulse is drumming loudly behind my eyes and in my ears. I feel sick, like if I don't keep moving I'll just fall over and never get up.

This is the moment when I know I'm going to die.


End file.
